Emily and I were the best of friends. I remember those times when we were four, licking melted ice cream off our fingers in the burning sun. I remember fifth-grade days spent frolicking in the pool in hot and freezing water alike. I remember the seventh-grade blues, where the sorrow of both of our failed romantic endeavors were shared equally and sympathized upon by the other. I remember that we were inseparable. Our birthdays were within a week of one another’s. Instead of holding one big party, as it seemed to be the tradition for friends like us, we held two huge ones. The sun smiled for us on our parties always. We were shocked the year that clouds sneaked up on us and hid the sky; it went against everything we had always believed in. Soon, it had us under the sheets for cover. “Hey,” I whispered in the barest scratch, pointing at the sky outside the window, “do you think that someone up there is mad at us?” I was afraid that whoever that someone was, he wouldn’t think twice before thunder-bolting a little girl who affronted him. “Do you think that someone up there is mad at us?” “I dunno,” she replied, revealing a profound secret, “but the Rainy Day Man isn’t mad. Mommy told me that he’s an old man who gives good girls presents on rainy days to cheer them up. She said not to tell anyone, ’cause if everyone knew, then everyone would be good on rainy days and he would become all overworked like Santa.” I nodded at this wisdom. Most kids were whiny on rainy days, and Emily certainly was a whiner. It was with hope and wonder that we waited for our gift until sleep arrived to harness us into her land of dreams. But moment passed with time and memory faded with moment. Seven, eight, nine, ten . . . We were still together, like I always knew we would be. Eleven, twelve, thirteen . . . We remained the best of friends in spite of everything life threw at us. * * * In our eighth-grade year, Emily caught a crush on Chris Hubbic, a black-haired, pale-skinned, pierced-eared Goth. For the life of me I could never figure out why, and she admitted that she didn’t know either. The very fact that the attraction existed was to be the most sacred of secrets. I, being the faithful friend that I was, swore to never tell. Alas, I should have known better. My mouth was never really good at following the instructions my brain gave it. “Really, I only told one person!” I whimpered, trying in vain to explain it to Emily the next day. “I really have no clue why everyone seems to know!” But what can words do to mend trust once ripped? I watched as she turned a deaf ear to my pleas, instead stomping off to weave through the crowds in the hallway until she was lost in the sea of students. The first day after, I almost wondered if she was playing some sort of twisted game. She avoided me on the bus, and moved to the opposite side of the room when I walked into my classroom first hour. And soon, I realized it was much, much more than a game. Our long-held belief that we would be companions until the end of creation had crumbled into dust beneath our feet. We gradually drifted apart, each adopting a new set of friends. Our mutual friends learned to never talk about one in front of the other. When Emily’s birthday arrived, I watched as all the members of our former set of friends were invited to her birthday party. All except for me. The day of the party, my rebellious feet carried me to a store, where I bought a small gift and some wrapping paper. I wrapped it up with surprising care—after all, why should I care if the present turned out messy?—and had my mother drive me to Emily’s home. Inside, music was blasting so heavily that it seemed to weigh down the house. I heard voices, and one by one I identified them. Jenny, Kelly, Shelly, and Erin. Julie, Megan, and Melanie . . . I paused there at the door for an eternity, wavering, deciding. Then, with a sudden burst of adrenaline, I realized that I might as well do what I came to do. Ding! The sound of the doorbell was faint to my ears and drowned out by the screams of laughter and music within. I waited, my nervousness rushing back and forming a knot in my throat. One minute, then two, then three. No reply. In a surge of rage, I dug my heels into the cement so heavily that I left a dirt mark with my shoe when I turned and left. If she hated me enough to not open the door, then fine. She wasn’t going to get a present either. The next week, for my birthday, I didn’t have a party at all. Perhaps it just wasn’t the same without Emily. Perhaps I wanted to show her that some people had the decency to not just go ahead and invite everyone but one person. In a way, the incident at her birthday party was like a final seal to a truth that way back somewhere in my heart I had refused to admit: Our friendship had been blown away by the wind, and it was not about to fly back. Something in me clicked that day. Somehow, I became the one who tried to stay as far away as possible on the bus and in the classrooms. After we graduated from middle school, we both departed to different high schools. Emily simply disappeared from my life. * * * High school was amazingly busy. So many clubs; so little time! I was a member of Future Problem Solving, Young Writers, Spanish Club, and Math
November/December 2003
Winter Palaces and Ice Ballerinas
It snowed last night, first it came down softly, then hard. My father was watching the news this morning, and told me that my school was cancelled because of the slick ice on the roads. My mother said that Jack Frost had done a good job last night. I could tell he did too. The windows had enough frost on them that I could write my name with my warm pink finger, melting the frost. I found this so amusing that soon most of the windows in the house had my name written all over them. When my father saw me still inside, he sent me out to shovel the driveway and scrape the car’s windows. I whined and complained, but my father does have a way with persuading me to do things. So I put on my mittens, zipped up my coat, pulled over my earmuffs, gripped the snow shovel, and made my way outside. A cold chill made its way up my nose and my cheeks, turning them cherry red. Before I started shoveling, I looked around me. Everything looked like a winter palace. The kind of palace you’d think the Snow Queen would have lived in. Forgetting about the chore my father had sent me to do, I dropped the shovel and walked into the winter scene. The naked trees and evergreens had snow stacked on top of their branches. Also, if I hadn’t counted wrong, I only saw one spear of grass coming up from the snow. There were squirrel and rabbit footprints in the white blanket, leading to a tree or burrow. Every one of the tiny details outside was like magic to me. Pure magic. The icicles on the roof, the way the wind would blow snow off tree branches, even my own boot prints, printed in the snow. I felt like I was the Snow Queen in the winter palace, and the chubby robin that was trying to get warm on a tree branch was the Snow King. I felt like I was the Snow Queen in the winter palace “Snow King,” I told the robin. “Come down and play with me.” Frightened by the sound of my voice, the Snow King flew off the branch, although it was hard for him to do this because of all the weight he put on for the winter coldness. As the snowflakes fell, they looked like graceful ballerina dancers, twirling and floating. I stuck out my tongue and a ballerina landed on it. The little ballerina snowflake tasted like frozen water only it had more texture to it. I turned around in circles with my tongue sticking out, catching ballerinas. At the corner of my eye, I saw all of the snow, blanketed on the driveway of my house. At that moment, I remembered the task I was sent to do. But, I didn’t want to leave my winter palace. So I pretended not to remember the driveway, and continued to watch ballerinas dance through the sky. Then, to my surprise, my father came out to see how I was doing with the driveway. “What are you doing?” he asked me. I bit my lip and thought for a moment. “I’m watching a recital of ice ballerinas,”I replied. “While I was sitting at my throne with the Snow King, in a winter palace of pure magic.” I stared at my father. My father stared at me. To my amazement, he smiled. “Can I join?” Delia Rainey, 10St. Louis, Missouri Liza Nikitin, 12South Salem, New York
Through Draco’s Eyes
“Carmen!” Dad’s voice rang, crisp with excitement. “Come look what came in today!” Half-heartedly, I swung off the couch and walked heavily to the door. I groaned as I stepped out of the air-conditioning into the stifling summer heat. I jogged to the corral where Dad stood and leaned on the fence next to him. I followed to where his finger pointed and saw what all the commotion was about. It was a huge black stallion, sides lathered in sweat. He stood silently in a corner of the paddock. Other than the occasional flick of his tail to ward off pesky flies, he was still. There was nothing to do but run forever, racing the shadow of the hawk to the end of eternity “Isn’t he a beauty,” Dad sighed, leaning over the fence rail. I nodded and leaned forward too, holding out my palm. “C’mere boy, lemme get a good look at you,” I called. He whipped his head toward me, eyes wide and alert. He started a quick trot toward me. “Carmen, NO!!” shouted Dad, yanking me to the ground. Terrified, I watched as the horse let into a wild gallop and smashed into the fence. He reared, hooves flailing, and cantered back to his corner, where he resumed whisking flies. But his image was stuck in my mind. The fire in his eyes! His nostrils had been flared so wide that I could almost picture smoke coming out of them like some sort of dragon-horse. That got me thinking. Dragon-horse . . . Horse-dragon .. . “Draco,” I whispered, hoisting myself up. “What?” Dad asked. “Draco,” I said louder. “His name’s Draco.” Dad chuckled and said, “Well, it’s time I got your Draco into his stall.” He swung a halter over his shoulder and headed slowly toward Draco, murmuring soft words. Finally, he got close enough to place a hand on his quivering side. Suddenly, Draco reared, sending Dad sprawling on the ground. He galloped madly around the pasture as Dad escaped. “Th-that horse,” he gasped, “is a live one!” Later that night, I came out to the pasture with some carrots and a halter. There was Draco, silently brooding in his corner. I leapt deftly over the fence and stood still. He regarded me warily, but lost interest as I stood still. I put the carrots in my palm and held them out to him. As we stood in the fading orange sunset, my mind began to wander. Before I knew it, I felt warm breath on my fingertips. Draco had come for the carrots. As he crunched, I slowly placed a hand on his forelock. He brought his eyes up to meet mine, and instantly I felt a trust form between us. Carefully, I slid the halter over his head and led him to the stalls. He stomped his foot on the wooden floor, shuffled through the hay, and gave a defeated sigh. I patted his side and whispered, “Spirit, boy, spirit.” * * * “I don’t know how you do it, Carmen!” Dad shook his head in wonder as I rode Draco bareback around the paddock. I had spent a lot of time with the horse and he had learned very quickly. I had a feeling that perhaps he had belonged to one of our neighbors, and was a runaway. As it became clear that I could handle him in the paddock, I decided to run him outside on the prairie. I chose a strong bridle and led him out, but his confusion was clear when I began to trot him toward the open prairie. But with every step away I could feel his mind clearing and his muscles coiled to readiness. Once we were out from the ranch, I let the reins go slack. He stopped completely for a moment before he realized what I was doing. How he flew! And for once, I saw the world through Draco’s eyes. The wind rippled the Indian grass, looking like the waves of an ocean. The sweet scent of the prairie rose wafted on a light breeze. And there was nothing to do but run forever, racing the shadow of the hawk to the end of eternity. I leaned eagerly against his neck, wind whipping my face, and forgot everything . . . Suddenly, a picture of the ranch flashed across my mind. We were far from home, now. I pulled the reins, but he strained forward. As I struggled to pull back, he fought for his head. In a last effort, I called softly, “Draco, we have to go home.” I gulped. “Well, my home, anyway. I can see it’s not yours, and never will be.” He slowed to a trot, then a walk. I turned him slowly toward the ranch. A change came over him the next day. His eyes had a glazed-over look; their old fire was gone. He barely acknowledged me, just kept his eyes on the window opened to the prairie. * * * A black horse, not my Draco any longer, stood silhouetted against the sun The next day, he Stopped eating. Worriedly; Dad called the vet, but I knew he wouldn’t find anything wrong. Draco was dying of a broken spirit. I went to talk to Dad. “No, no, absolutely not!” Dad said. “But Dad!!” I cried. “Carmen, no! It is simply out of the question! Those horses are income for you, me and your mother! We are not letting him go!” I turned around to the door, tears in my eyes, when he said, “Carmen, wait.” I turned halfway. “I forbid you to go into Draco’s stall until after he’s sold.” I turned to stare, not believing what I heard. “I hate you!” I screamed. “I hate you, I hate you!” I tore down the hallway, slamming and locking my door. A few seconds later, Dad was pounding on it, yelling, “Carmen, open the door this instant! Carmen!” I ignored him, turned my stereo on full
